


Of Plumbers, Callboys, and Top Gear Presenters

by Ymas



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Callboy James, M/M, Richard Hammond's Crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23577487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ymas/pseuds/Ymas
Summary: In which James May is a callboy, Jason Dawe never left TopGear, and Jeremy Clarkson needs a plumber.
Relationships: Jeremy Clarkson/James May
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In September 2019 Jeremy Clarkson posted the following on his Instagram:  
**"Porn gives young people an unrealistic and unhealthy idea of how quickly a plumber will come to their house."**
> 
> And my mind immediately went to Jeremy calling a plumber and getting callboy James. Yeah. I don't know, either.  
So I started writing something utterly different. And then somehow, gradually, it turned into something utterly me.
> 
> _Timeline 2005-2008; mentions of Richard's family, no partners/kids for James and Jeremy._  
_I know NOTHING about the work of either a plumber or a callboy, this has NOTHING to do with reality._
> 
> As ususal, looked over and made much better by the amazing [delighted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted). You are a star!

James wipes his hand on his jeans, then straightens up from under the sink. He turns around, twirls the cordless drill like a gun and sticks it into the tool belt fastened around his hips.   
  
Smiles.  
  
Winks.  
  
Perfectly aware of the effect he's having.   
  
Bare-chested, barefoot and tousle-haired, in slightly grease-stained jeans with holes in strategic places. The tool belt, his competency with all things hands-on… he might not be suitable for the palate of the broad masses, but the niche clientele he caters to adores him.   
  
The woman standing in a glittery golden negligee in the middle of the kitchen is no exception.  
  
She ogles him unashamedly from bare feet to unruly curls and back down again, gaze coming to rest on his groin. Licks her lips.   
  
“That one’s done with, it shouldn't give you any more trouble.” James pitches his voice deliberately low. “Is there anything else that needs maintenance in here, do you think?” He lets his eyes wander over the woman's trim body. She's attractive to him, this one. He's a pro, of course, he can deal with anything. But if they are reasonably good-looking it makes work just that much more enjoyable.   
  
She nods, then shakes her head. “Not in here. But in the bedroom, maybe?”   
  
He smiles again, the soft and dreamy one. The one that has the potential to weaken knees left and right.   
  
Hammond says so.   
  
James gestures for her to lead the way. “Let’s have a look in there, then, shall we?”  
  
He risks a quick glance at the clock over the sink as he follows the woman out.   
  
If he's efficient, he might just make it back home in time for tonight's new episode of TopGear.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James takes the steps two at a time, running to catch the tube back to Hammersmith. He manages to squeeze through the doors just as they start closing, setting off the klaxon. _Yes_. TopGear is actually going to happen tonight.   
  
He pumps his fist, giving the grandpa scowling at him a bright smile and digs out his personal phone, switches it back on. A text from Hammond is waiting. ‘_I've got beer and curry. Homemade. If you don't make it in time don't expect leftovers.’_  
  
James grins.   
  
Richard is his best and oldest friend. They’d met through working for the same escort agency. James had been instantly smitten with the newcomer’s soft brown eyes and contagious laugh… and frankly a bit alarmed by his apparent naiveté and unbounded enthusiasm. He'd very quickly decided to take him under his wing and make sure he came through his initiation unscathed.   
  
Almost equally quickly James had found out how much Richard was faking things.   
  
He was neither as naïve nor as enthusiastic as he liked to present himself. He was fiercely intelligent, very spontaneously funny and the carrier of a host of personal issues. Not least of them about his height.   
  
They were an unlikely pair, the two of them, but they complemented each other. Completed each other. Took care of each other.   
  
Both of them had eventually moved on, had _pushed _each other to move on.   
  
For all his put-on enthusiasm, his perfect looks and demeanour for the job, Richard had never liked being an escort. He’d needed fast and easy money and it was a way for a gorgeous-looking art school dropout with a passion for expensive American supercars to _make_ fast and easy money.   
  
Never, not for a single second, had either of them believed anything would come of it when they’d filmed a little application video for the job as presenter on the TopGear remake.  
  
It’d been a joke, born of an evening of too much beer and too little sleep and brought about solely because James had recently bought a video camera. They’d dressed Richard up in a Batman costume and let him review a ridiculous Renault Twingo. All in jest, hardly a serious word in the whole thing.   
  
But to everyone's surprise, most of all his own, Richard had been invited to audition.   
  
And then, even more surprisingly, he'd gotten the job.   
  
James isn't the jealous type, far from it. But in this, he envies Richard. Fiercely. Because James loves cars, too. Not the same cars Richard loves. James’ pride and joy is an old second-hand Bentley T2 Richard wouldn't be seen dead in, for example. But they both love cars, and they love to work on cars. And while James likes his job as an escort and a callboy, a job on a national television show, driving all the most tantalising new car releases, is, of course, in a whole different league.   
  
And so Richard had moved on to being a presenter on Britain's most-watched factual television show.   
  
And James had moved on to being one of London’s most sought-after specialized callboys, pleasing men and women alike.   
  
He works independently now.   
  
Yes, things took quite an unexpected turn. James does maintenance work now, too. Besides the pleasing men and women malarkey. Or rather, to complement it.   
  
It had started with a repeat customer who liked a bit of role playing.   
  
It had continued with said customer realizing that One - James would actually fix the wonky sink and not just pretend to, and Two - James was really rather good at it. And he liked doing it, too.   
  
It had ended with more and more customers asking for “plumber James” until, eventually, Richard had convinced James to free himself from his agency and specialise. Make a living out of it.   
  
Word of mouth is a fascinating thing.  
  
James is sure Richard had a hand in it. Or a tongue, more like. It hadn't taken long, in any case, until the workload had become more than James could handle and he’d had to start turning clients down. Incidentally, that had made him even more popular. “Exclusive,” Richard had giggled. “Perfect marketing strategy, mate.”  
  
Now, James takes just enough appointments to be able to comfortably get by. He's never aimed to be rich. This is simple and easy and fun. And it pays well. A perfect set-up.  
  
His reputation stands. James is quick and efficient. And a fast responder. He fixes the plumbing before he _fixes the plumbing_. He has a 100% success rate.   
  
Richard is a star in his field, now.   
And so is James, just not as widely known.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The door has been left unlocked for him, James can hear the TV already on.   
  
Richard is in the kitchen when James sticks his head around the corner, busying himself with James’ pans and plates and kitchen utensils. He neither has nor expects any kind of regard for personal space, it had taken a long time and a lot of shouting for James to get used to that. By now, though, it’s perfectly ordinary.  
  
James smiles in place of a greeting. “Shower," he says.  
  
“Yes, please, by all means.” Richard barely looks up, concentrating as he is on pouring sauce from one pan into another.   
  
James stands in the doorway for a few seconds longer, revelling in the knowledge of how incredibly lucky he is.  
  
Richard is the only person in his life who knows. Really, truly _knows_. Who _understands_. It's not exactly a secret, his line of work, James is not ashamed of it, if someone asks, he tells. He's just tired of explaining. No one gets it, no one _can _possibly get it. Except for Richard.  
And despite their lives having taken completely different turns, having gone in completely different directions (Richard is not only a celebrity, he has a _family_ now, is married to a woman and has children), James somehow got to keep him.   
  
He knows better than to take this for granted.   
  
They never had sex together and they never will. What they have is too precious and _just_ _right_.   
  
Cuddling is part of it, though. Encouraged even, and James is looking forward to some affectionate physical contact tonight.   
  
He does like his job, he really does, most of the time. But he won't deny it takes a toll on him even after all this time. And sometimes it makes him a little needy, makes him crave real affection now and again. He generally guards his personal space, knows it's a weakness, a liability in his line of work. He has to be careful, distance himself, lest he might get too clingy, too close to a customer.   
  
But Richard knows. With Richard he can let go. Richard can give him what he needs. Is willing to give him what he needs and let him be himself.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James comes back into the living room in jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, still towelling his hair, just as the last chords of _Jessica_ play. “You missed Jezza’s intro,” Richard complains, tucking into his curry and nudging a second plate closer to James.   
  
“You’re gonna recap multiple times anyway,” James mumbles around his first mouthful. Richard kicks his shin, so James shuts up and together, they watch the episode.   
  
Or at least James watches. He is well aware that Richard's eyes are more on him than on the screen, gauging his reactions. He won't let on that he notices, though. Richard thinks himself stealthy, after all.   
  
It's routine by now. James lets his reactions be a little more pronounced, his laughter go on a little longer than it naturally would, delighting in Richard's pride, his joy. He is good with what he does, Richard. So are Jeremy and Jason. They've made a fab new show out of the old, stuffy, cobbled-together car programme. James would enjoy it equally much if he didn't know one of its presenters.  
  
But he does, and that makes it even more fun.   
  
By the time the show ends, they are snuggled up together on the sofa, full to bursting with Richard's delicious curry, chilled bottles of beer in hand. _Kingfisher_. Genuine Indian beer. Richard is thorough. He knows James is a sucker for such little details.   
  
And now, finally, James gets treated to all the backstage details surrounding the episode. Filming mishaps, cut scenes, general tomfoolery. Richard is forbidden from telling much of anything before the episode comes out and James never asks. Because he knows Richard _would_ tell him and he doesn't want to get him in a tight spot.  
  
Besides, he enjoys these after-show recaps even more than he enjoys watching the show itself. Richard, pressed close to James’ side, mellow but animated, sharing anecdotes and stories, all relaxed and giggly. James could listen for hours.   
  
“... and I think what he needs is a proper shag from a real man,” Richard says and James is jolted out of his reveries quite abruptly.   
  
“Who, Jeremy Clarkson??”   
  
“Yes!”   
  
"Isn't he straight?”   
  
“With how he's coming on to me? No way, mate!” Richard punches him on the arm. “Are you even listening to what I'm saying?”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When the call comes, James almost drops his phone.   
  
“Clarkson here,” says the gruff voice. “I got your number from a friend. Heard you’re good at plumbing. And efficient, too. Extraordinary service, apparently.”   
  
The pause turns into an awkward silence before James remembers this is the point where _he_ is supposed to say something.   
  
“Ah, yes,” he says, clearing his throat. “That's what I'm known for.”_ Oh, Richard. You arse._ “Apparently.”   
  
“Well, I've got a couple of things that need looking at,” Clarkson continues. “And I hear you're a fast responder. So.”   
  
“I…” _Damn, Richard. You utter, utter arse._ “Yes, I am. Absolutely.”   
  
“Well, then. What about right now?”   
  
James’ mind is reeling.   
  
This is Jeremy Clarkson. _The_ Jeremy Clarkson. One of the most controversial but also one of the most successful people on British television right now.   
  
Who James, to Richard's endless amusement, finds quite hot. Very, _very_ hot, actually.   
  
Who is also a celebrity. Perceived straight. Very, _very_ straight. And Richard's workmate.   
  
James would have to face him without any time for mental preparation whatsoever. The very thought has his anxiety levels spiking sky high.  
  
This could go so wrong. So, _so _wrong.   
  
But then again, it's a once in a lifetime opportunity.   
  
And, to be honest, James is rather humbled by the trust.   
  
Jeremy Clarkson calling him just like that, personally, risking exposure… it must be Richard's doing. He must trust Richard infinitely.   
  
And James won't let Richard down. Especially not if it comes with the chance of getting into Jeremy Clarkson’s pants.   
  
Oh, god.   
  
“What area do you live in?”  
  
“Chelsea.”  
  
Oh, god. Of course he’s _that _posh.  
  
Well, at least the chances of someone recognizing James over there are close to zero. He doesn’t exactly want this splayed all over the front page of the Daily Mail tomorrow.  
  
“I could make it there in about…” James looks at the clock. Calculates time for shower, prep, wardrobe, tube, “... three hours?”  
  
“Great!” Clarkson says, sounding bright and somehow relieved. He rattles out the address so fast, James struggles to keep up. “Oh, and make sure you bring the big tools!”   
  
James freezes mid-scrawl, pen poised, phone pressed to his ear.   
  
Listens to the click of Clarkson disconnecting and the dial tone coming up.   
  
Whoa. Okay.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James takes extra care prepping himself.   
  
He has no idea what Clarkson might want. Expect. But he's almost certain he’s new to this, and men who are new to this tend to be a little… overenthusiastic.   
  
He debates calling Richard and shouting at him while he's doing it, but he's afraid it’ll make him late.   
  
He thoroughly checks and repacks his toolbox which, of course, holds tools for both intended activities.   
  
Everything is squeaky clean and in perfect order.   
  
The decision what to wear is always the most difficult part of the process of getting ready.   
  
James has, admittedly, not the best sense of fashion. Most of the clothes in his ‘business wardrobe’ are things Richard has shoved at him on joint shopping trips because “it brings out the colour of your eyes” or because “it accentuates your pretty arse”.   
  
Eventually he settles for a nice blue button down (because of the eye-thing) a pair of comfortable jeans without holes (he doesn't want to overdo it on the first call) and a soft leather jacket (because Clarkson seems to like leather jackets, what with how often he's wearing them himself).   
  
And then he's off.


	2. Chapter 2

The door opens before James can even ring the bell. Before he has a chance to properly get into character, much less strike a pose or something. He's glad he'd at least fastened the utility belt around his hips before walking up to the townhouse.  
  
Clarkson is _huge_.   
  
Taller even than he seems on TV. No wonder Richard complains so much.  
  
But he's just as hot as he is on TV. Maybe even hotter. Bloody Nora. James stares. Checks himself and leans against the doorjamb.   
  
"You sent for a plumber?" he drawls, jutting out a hip.  
  
Clarkson blinks, looking a little confused. James hopes Richard hasn't exaggerated too much about his looks.   
  
It's what his clients like about him, his down-to-earth, guy-from-next-door looks. It's an asset, usually.   
  
But it all comes down to expectations, in the end. And taste.  
  
"I came as fast as ever I could." James peers up at Clarkson through his lashes. Bats them for good measure.  
  
"Ah, uh. Yes. Thank you for that." Clarkson offers a hand. "Jeremy."  
  
James has to straighten up from his pose to be able to shake. It throws him slightly. Normally, the clients take their cues from _him_, let _him_ lead.  
  
"James." The handshake is firm. James holds on a little longer than strictly necessary. "Now, do you want to show me those tubes that need blowing?"  
  
"It's a leak, actually."  
  
James laughs, making it sound husky. "Do you always jump straight ahead to the end goal?"  
  
That makes Clarkson grin, if a little bemusedly. "I tend to, yes. Come on in, then."  
  
He leads them into the kitchen, points at the sink.   
  
James drops to his knees, making sure Clarkson gets a good look at his backside and an idea of his flexibility.   
  
Clarkson seems entirely unimpressed.  
  
Ah, well. He's going to be a bit of work, then, this one. But first - the task at hand.  
  
The leak is quickly found and easy to mend.  
  
James wriggles and moans a little for effect, sheds his leather jacket, opens the collar of his shirt.   
  
Clarkson keeps standing in the middle of the kitchen, still seeming mostly unfazed.   
  
James straightens up, opens another button of his shirt, fans himself and exaggeratedly shows off his handiwork.   
  
"You _are_ good," Clarkson says. And finally he sounds at least _somewhat _awed.  
  
"I know," James says. Winks. Slowly. Deliberately.   
  
Clarkson blinks again. Obviously taken by surprise. Then, he too, winks.   
  
James smiles, trying to make it look reassuring. "So, anything else here needs maintenance?”   
  
Clarkson fidgets. "Well, if you still have time, I _do_ have some blocked pipes…."  
  
“That's what I'm here for." James smirks, shouldering his toolbox. "Lead on."  
  
Clarkson does.   
  
Leads them into the bathroom, that's what he does.   
  
And points at the drain of the tub.  
  
James turns to him, perplexed. He usually fixes _one _thing. And then it's down to business.  
  
But it's not as if he'd made Clarkson read the fine print. And if the nervous foot to foot shifting is any indication, he really needs some more time to get comfortable.   
  
James shrugs, opens his shirt, slings an oily rag around his neck (it makes him look sweaty without actually being it) and goes to work.  
  
"I'm not exploiting you, am I?" Clarkson asks, after James has made several futile attempts at unplugging. The damn pipe really is putting up a fight. "I mean, I compensate generously. But it's _your _time and this was very short notice."  
  
“It's not, though, is it?" James feeds a tube down the drain, blows compressed air through it. "It's _your_ time, _your_ money. I don't care what you do with it.”  
  
“Ah,” Clarkson says. “Alright, then.”   
  
James dabs at his forehead with the rag that is suddenly not only for show. "I'll kill him," he mumbles.  
  
"Huh?" Clarkson asks. Or maybe it's "Who?". It's unclear.   
  
James doesn't reply. He does chance a glance up, though. Clarkson seems… interested at least. But not yet aroused, not quite. Or maybe a little? It's hard to tell. But it's progress. James redoubles his efforts with some pliers.   
  
And succeeds.   
  
"There we go!" he straightens up, triumphant smile on his face.  
  
Now Clarkson definitely looks impressed. "Wow," he says. And yes, it does sound a little husky. "One more?" he asks. Begs, more like. "Just one?"   
  
Ah, well. James has encountered weirder kinks.  
  
But then Clarkson points at the toilet and… no. No way.   
  
He cannot _possibly_ be serious.   
  
James pins him with a glare.   
  
Clarkson looks shifty. "The water keeps running through. I've had other plumbers look at it and they couldn't fix it, so I thought… because you're really good. But we can call it off right now. I'll pay you, you can leave. No obligations, no hard feelings."  
  
And it's probably the fastest way to make James do something. By appealing to his pride.   
  
By now James wonders if there will, at some point in time, be actual sex involved or if Clarkson will eventually get off just from watching James fix stuff.   
  
If James is honest with himself: it doesn't look much like it at the moment. And that, that’s what _really _hurts his pride.   
  
He decisively shrugs out of his shirt. He'll fix this fucking toilet in the sexiest way possible.  
  
Clarkson clears his throat. "We could...ahm… open a window?"  
  
James drops the screwdriver into the toilet bowl. What is it with this man??   
  
"If you need it?" he says carefully, fishing for the tool in a decidedly unsexy way. Goddamnit.   
  
"I… what?" Clarkson sounds puzzled.  
  
James seriously starts to wonder if there's something he's missing.  
  
"I'll kill him," he mumbles again.  
  
"You're a very weird man, do you know that?" Clarkson asks slowly. "But the water has stopped running through, so I'm not complaining. It's just an observation."  
  
“Do you always insult people by voicing your 'observations'?” James snaps, more annoyed at himself and his inability to get the job done than at anything Clarkson has said.  
  
"I tend to, yes," Clarkson says with a sly smile and James can't help but grin.   
  
He fastens the last screw with an elaborate twist of his wrist. "There you go."  
  
"You are… I mean _that_ _was_ pretty awesome." Clarkson almost stumbles over his own words. He looks flushed. James smirks.   
  
Finally, they are getting somewhere.   
  
"Okay. I’ve got things to do now. Cash or card?"  
  
Or not.  
  
"Uhm…," James says, but he's already being ushered out into the hall.  
  
"Well? How much will it be?"   
  
James peeks at Clarkson's groin. Oh, thank god, he's definitely had an effect. And if the client wants to finish off himself, well then, that's the client's choice and it's a choice that should be respected.   
  
"I usually don't charge the intro but as this was _all _intro, uhm…" Get a grip, James. This is Jeremy Clarkson. He's swimming in money. "One point five hours, that will be… 600 pounds."  
  
"What?!?" Clarkson exclaims. His wallet hits the sideboard with a thud. "You're good, man, but that's bold even from you! For that kind of money I could get three strippers all night!"  
  
James has reached the end of his rope. "Well, is it _my_ fault you don't want to have actual sex?!?" he snaps.   
  
Resounding silence.  
  
Clarkson's lips move soundlessly.   
  
He looks disturbingly like a fish out of water.  
  
Realisation creeps in with icy fingers, ghosting over James' spine, gripping his gut and squeezing tight.   
  
Oh god. Oh cock. Oh. Clarkson didn't know.  
  
"I am going to kill him," James grinds out. "I am going to kill him with my bare hands, I swear."  
  
"Who?" Clarkson sounds desperate. Latching onto the one question with the easy answer. "Who are you talking about?"  
  
"Hammond of course! I'll strangle him, the little pikey!"  
  
"Hammond? What's Hammond got to do with it all??"  
  
Oh.   
  
"Wasn't he the one who gave you my number?"  
  
"No!" Clarkson rakes a hand through his hair. "Jennifer. Our production lady. She told Liz from research that she'd found the best plumber" - Clarkson air quotes, putting on his show voice - “_in the world_”. He lets his hands fall to his side, shrugs helplessly.  
  
Ah.  
  
“Wait a minute…,” another kind of realisation dawns on Clarkson's face. "Does that mean you and Hammond…?”   
  
“No!” James hurries to say. Can see the doubt on Clarkson's face. “Mates,” he clarifies. “Very old mates.”   
  
Clarkson hums. “What about Jennifer, then? She an old mate, too?”   
  
James shrugs, holds his gaze. “Can’t say that I know her.”   
  
Clarkson gapes, then scrunches up his nose. It's very adorable. “Okay. Not something I wanted to know about our production director.”  
  
"That's what you get for eavesdropping on conversations not meant for you, I guess," James deadpans.   
  
Clarkson grins lopsidedly. "You’re not wrong, I guess."  
  
Both laugh.   
  
Then stand in awkward silence.  
  
James clears his throat. "We could still, you know. Have sex. I mean I _am_ the best plumber in the world. Literally and figuratively. It's included in the price. In this case. Usually it's the other way round."  
  
Clarkson sighs. "James." It's the first time he uses the name. "I’m straight." It sounds slightly regretful.  
  
James shrugs. "Of course. That'll be 600 pounds, then."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
James doesn't tell Richard. It takes all his considerable restraint not to. 


	3. Chapter 3

Several weeks pass by.   
  
James goes about his life, and his job, trying hard to put the encounter out of his mind.   
  
Putting Richard's conviction that Jeremy Clarkson isn't entirely straight out of his mind.   
  
The way he’d been so flatteringly impressed by James’ competency.   
  
His flushed arousal.   
  
His adorably flailing embarrassment which he thought he covered so well.   
  
His ability to take things in stride and himself not too seriously - the sexiest character trait possible, in James’ opinion.   
  
Hammond is very good at that, too.   
  
He watches TopGear as he used to, but now he watches it with different eyes. And finally he sees what Richard means when he says Jason doesn't quite fit in. Finally he sees why he always thought Jason was somehow the odd one out.   
  
Jason doesn't have it. That ability to laugh at himself.   
  
James wonders how the three of them even manage to work together.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
This time, when the call comes, thanks to caller ID, James at least gets a couple of seconds to brace himself.   
  
It's nowhere near enough, so he takes the offense.   
  
“Clarkson,” he drawls, “How unexpected. What can I do for you?”   
  
There is such a prolonged silence on the other end, James has to check to make sure his phone hasn't suddenly run out of battery or shut down or something.   
  
“James, hi,” Clarkson says eventually. Another long pause. “I… my plumbing’s acting up again.   
  
It's very difficult to determine how to react to that. Despite his job, James isn't very apt at the interpretation of subtext. Or maybe because of it. It's usually quite straightforward, all innuendo leading to sex.  
  
“And you want me to have a look at it.”   
  
“It would be very much appreciated."  
  
James knows he shouldn't. He has no idea what Clarkson intends to achieve. This is almost irresponsibly dangerous.   
  
Then again, James has wanked more often than he'd ever care to admit to the fantasy of how that plumbing job _could_ have ended. He even has, on several occasions on the job, imagined he was performing for Clarkson instead of the customer actually watching.  
  
"Alright," he hears himself say. "When?"  
  
"I'm free tonight," Clarkson says and yeah, no. That's James' line.  
  
"Okay." Cock. Damn it all to hell and back. This is not going to end well. "Want me to bring anything?"  
  
"Your toolbox might be a good idea," Clarkson says and James can tell he's grinning.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James takes his old Bentley this time. Because Clarkson lives posh enough to have his own driveway, he’d taken note last time.   
  
It's a fabulous evening.   
  
Clarkson, leaning against the kitchen counter, relentlessly takes the piss. It's just as well that James is lying on his back under the sink. Like this, Clarkson can’t see how amused he is.   
  
James fuels it, plays it up, and Jeremy rises to the bait, getting ever more fake-outraged, and they play off each other beautifully. It's the most fun James has had in a while. Even Richard tires of this game fairly quickly. A lot quicker than James, in any case.   
  
Clarkson, though, keeps it up right until they are out in the hallway, saying goodbye.   
  
James vaguely thinks that it's in no way fair to ask for Jeremy’s money, not after he's enjoyed himself so immensely, but before the thought can properly manifest, Jeremy has his wallet out and pays up without blinking. Ah well, there's more where that came from. Clarkson can afford it.   
  
James tucks the money away, then pointedly looks at the bulge in Jeremy's pants. “You _are_ aware I could help with that, right? It's included in the price, even.”  
  
“Jaaaames.” Smiling. Gently scolding.   
  
“I know, I know,” James holds up his hands. “Perfectly straight.” He can't help his eyes straying down again.   
  
“Yes.” Jeremy grins. “I’m just big, is all.”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Something’s up with Jezza,” Richard says, words muffled around the nails he's holding between his lips. They are in the Hammond backyard, attempting to build a swing set for Richard's girls. “He’s stopped coming on to me.”  
  
James’ blood runs cold. He doesn't want to talk about Jeremy's sexual orientation. Least of all to Jeremy's friend and co-presenter.   
  
“He’s stopped with pretty much _all_ of the sexual innuendo, actually,” Richard continues, unsuspecting. "It's disturbing."  
  
“Aren't you glad?” James asks carefully.  
  
“No!” Richard spits the nails into the flat of his palm. "It's Jeremy. It's not right.”   
  
James takes one of the nails and the hammer out of Richard’s hand and hammers it into the frame himself. “Maybe he's realised he was out of line?”   
  
Richard snorts. “Jeremy Clarkson?!?”   
  
“Well, you know him better than I do.” James almost hits himself with the hammer. Damn it. He's not supposed to know Jeremy _at_ _all_.   
  
Richard doesn't seem to have noticed. “I think it's the situation with Jason that's getting to him,” he muses, holding the frame in place for James.   
  
Thank god, safer ground. “Whassat then?”  
  
Richard shrugs. “It's not working. It's getting worse with every series. The only reason he's still there is because we can't think of a replacement.”   
  
“Ah.” James rattles the completed frame, testing his handiwork. “I’m sure Chris Evans would jump at a chance.”   
  
“Har-har.”   
  
James expertly ducks away from Richard's swatting hand.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It takes a couple of weeks for Jeremy to call again. Not as many as last time, but long enough for James to almost lose hope. Not that he'd actually hoped for anything. That would be creepy and he'll deny it to his dying day.  
  
"Clarkson! Don't tell me - your pipes are giving you trouble again."  
  
Jeremy laughs. "Guessed it in one."  
  
"Neglected maintenance?" James is feeling cheeky.  
  
"Oi," Jeremy protests indignantly. "I'll have you know, I'm flushing them frequently."  
  
They both snigger like schoolboys.   
  
"So… come by?" Jeremy asks into the ensuing silence. Unusually hesitant.  
  
James sighs. "Jeremy."  
  
"I like to watch you…" Jeremy stumbles, "...watch you work."  
  
"Do you get off on it?"  
  
A pause. It stretches. "If I admit it, will that make you come over?"  
  
James sighs again. "It will at least make me feel better, because that's what I get paid for. And I aim to please. "  
  
"Okay", Jeremy says. Then, in a rushed almost-whisper: "Okay, yeah, I do."  
  
James rolls his eyes at his own lack of steadfastness. Who is he fooling. "Right. Give me two hours."   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
This time, James arrives at Jeremy's on his Suzuki motorcycle. Jeremy almost has apoplexy. Right up until the moment when he notices how the leathers stretch enticingly over James' arse when he bends over to inspect the washing machine's outflow pipe.   
  
They banter about cars and motorcycles while James twists the tubes loose one by one, blows them through and cleans them (wholly unnecessarily) before re-attaching them again.   
  
There doesn't seem to be a single thing they agree on and still it's one of the most fun and engaging conversations James can remember ever having.  
  
Back in the hallway, Jeremy fumbles the one hundred pound notes out of his wallet and hands them over without blinking.  
  
He never tips, and for that James is grateful.   
  
They stand, awkwardly looking at each other.   
  
"Are you sure you don't want me to…?" James gestures vaguely in the direction of Jeremy's crotch. Now that Jeremy has admitted it turns him on, it seems somehow more awkward to mention it than before.   
  
"Yes," Jeremy says. Hesitates. Adds, very quietly: "Maybe next time."  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on tight, here comes the angst! And the fluff.  
It was supposed to be crack. Really, it was. But then it took on a life of its own.
> 
> I nicked the phrase “as fast as he thinks would be acceptable to a sympathetic traffic cop” straight from James’s Telegraph column of 30th September 2006: “So I locked the Panda and went in the Boxster, as fast as I thought would be acceptable to a sympathetic traffic cop.”

The phone call comes much sooner this time. Much, much sooner. Only days after the last one.   
  
“Clarkson!” James laughs. He's suddenly in a fabulous mood. “Don't tell me your pipes are blocked again or I’ll start thinking you never take care of them yourself after all!”   
  
“Uh. Huh?”   
  
It's not Jeremy on the other end.   
  
It's Richard.   
  
_Ohfuckohcockohfuckfuckfuck_...  
  
"Richard? Why are you calling me on my work line?"  
  
"Because my phone got crushed by a Hilux and I never bothered to remember your personal number and I'm calling from Jeremy's mobile and _why are you answering like that?!?_"  
  
There is no way James can reply to this without making things worse. So he does the dignified thing and doesn't reply at all.   
  
“Oh. My. God.” There's an intake of breath, a split-second’s pause, and then Richard dissolves into hysterical laughter.   
  
James takes the phone away from his ear and scolds at it.   
  
It doesn't help. When he puts it back, Richard is still giggling madly, hiccupping and wheezing air into his lungs.   
  
“Richard,” James says. And then again, sterner: “Richard!”   
  
“Sorry, sorry.” Richard gulps in a breath of air. “I'm sorry but… my presumably straight co-presenter paying my best friend money to get his ‘pipes cleaned’... bloody fucking nora but it’s a small world…” and with that he's off again.   
  
“It's all I’m doing, actually,” James says, forcing himself to keep his voice calm and level even though a smile is tugging at his lips. “I mean. Legit. For real. Literally.”   
  
That sobers Richard up quite quickly. “Bollocks!!”   
  
“I wish it was.”   
  
“No, seriously mate, you're shitting me.”   
  
“Am not.”   
  
Pause. “What do you mean, _you wish it was_?”   
  
“Don't play dumb, Richard.”   
  
There's a yelp, a little crash, then Richard calling: “Yeah, yeah, come off it, Jezza, I'll be there in a minute!”   
  
“Richard…”   
  
“Does he know?”   
  
“He knows I know you. Richard, what did you want?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You phoned me.”  
  
“Ah!” Richard laughs, bright and infectious. “My mobile isn't the only thing that got crushed. I wanted to ask if you'd come pick me up, but under the circumstances… not sure that's such a good idea?”  
  
James laughs, too. “Yeah, at the moment I think I’d rather you found someone else.”   
  
They disconnect and James sits there, staring at the wall for a long time, wondering what would have happened if he’d met Jeremy in a situation like this, being nothing other than a mate who occasionally drops by to pick Richard up.   
  
Maybe they wouldn't even have started talking to each other, ever.  
  
Or maybe they would have, and maybe they could have become friends.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Four days later, the world turns upside down.   
  
It's Mindy who calls him. Carefully calm, but with such a sharp edge of panic to her words, James doesn't need to ask any questions. He throws a couple of things into an overnight bag, runs out of the house and rushes to Leeds as fast as he thinks would be acceptable to a sympathetic traffic cop.   
  
It takes some begging and shouting and a lot of convincing desperation (that one’s easy to do), but eventually he’s led through to the private waiting room where family and friends and a good number of the TopGear crew are already gathered, waiting for news.   
  
Normally it would have given James anxiety. Walking into a room full of strangers, many of them well-known TV personalities producing his favourite show. As it is, he doesn't even stop to consider what he might find.  
  
His eyes fall first on a woman he'd once seen in a glittery golden negligee.   
  
_Oh, cock._  
  
That must be Jennifer, then. The production lady Jeremy had overheard talking about him.   
  
She gapes at James, then quickly averts her eyes and starts talking to the man with a hook hand sitting next to her.   
  
James edges along the opposite wall of the small room, squeezing into a seat as far away from her as he can get.  
  
Only then does he notice the bent curly head in the corner. Almost within touching distance. _Oh, cock_ _again_.   
  
Jeremy's head slowly lifts.   
  
Their eyes meet, hold for a long minute. Peripherally James is aware that Jennifer has stopped talking again, is watching them.   
  
He doesn't look away.   
  
Knows the fear, the care, the love he sees in Jeremy's troubled gaze is exactly what is reflected in his own. Sees that Jeremy sees it, too. Understands it.   
  
“He drove a jet car,” Jeremy says quietly. “At about 300 mph. It rolled. He ended up on his head. It's critical. That's all we know so far.” There's moisture gathered in the corner of his eyes but it doesn't fall.   
  
James swallows hard against the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he says, resisting the urge to reach out. “Thank you, Jeremy.” And he fervently hopes Jeremy knows it's for so much more than the mere words. _For letting me be here. For treating me normally. For being here for Richard. _  
  
After hours of waiting Mindy appears and she flings herself at James the second she sees him. He's a little overwhelmed but a lot grateful because it establishes his position in front of everyone. He has a right to be here.   
  
She turns to Jeremy next, who holds her tightly, and that, too, makes James feel warm all over. He knew Jeremy and Richard were close. But seeing it, seeing how much Richard and his family are cared for, it means a lot.  
  
James has never stopped feeling protective of Richard.   
  
Mindy takes them in to see Richard, just the two of them, and James witnesses Jeremy unravel before his very eyes. It might be projection, but he feels a fierce wave of affection course through him, can't resist reaching out a hand and placing it between Jeremy's quivering shoulder blades.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Richard is, without a doubt, the luckiest bastard in the world.   
  
He wakes up to Jeremy berating him for being a shit driver and greets James with a cheerful “Hello, cockface.”   
  
James holds a shuddering, shaking Jeremy in his arms in a storage room behind rows of shelves of linen, in no way in any better state himself, before going down on his knees and sucking him off. It's rough, and desperate, and edgy, and when Jeremy groans, a strained keening sound like it’s hurting him, like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life, and then lets go with something not unlike a sob, James comes violently in his own pants without even having touched himself.   
  
Jeremy ghosts a finger under James’ chin and tips his head back and only then does James realise that both their faces are equally tear-streaked.   
  
Jeremy's gaze is unreadable. He moves his thumb, gently stroking it against James’ cheek, over his bottom lip, then abruptly lets go, does up his jeans and is gone.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
In no way is it smooth sailing from there. Richard struggles. Memories, headaches, eyesight, coordination, temper. It’s a struggle, but it’s uphill. Ever uphill. He makes it his one big goal to get back on the show and he puts everything into it, everything he is, everything he has.  
  
James meets almost the whole TopGear team. Jeremy is constantly there. So is Andy Wilman, the producer. There's a steady stream of people coming and going.   
  
Soon James even knows who the Stig is.   
  
The one person he never sees is Jason Dawe.   
  
“I expected to meet Jason, one of these days,” James says casually, handing over a cigarette while they slowly circle the courtyard.   
  
They are tentatively becoming more familiar, more intimate with each other, united in their worry about Richard as well as their enthusiasm about cars.  
  
They never mention their previous encounters.  
  
Or the one in the storage room.  
  
Or James’ job.  
  
“I haven't told Richard yet,” Jeremy says. As if it's the continuation of a conversation. As if it's an explanation.   
  
“Hmmm?” James prompts when no more is forthcoming, nudging him with an elbow.   
  
Jeremy stops walking and stares into the distance. “Jason isn’t coming back. Even if Richard makes it… he's not coming back. I haven't told Richard yet.”  
  
“Jason’s decision or yours?”  
  
Jeremy shrugs. “We had a fight. About the show in general and Richard in specific. He said things I couldn't let pass.” He smiles sadly. “We were on a downwards spiral with him anyway.”  
  
James nods. Doesn't say that he knows. “What now?”   
  
Jeremy shrugs again.   
  
“You can't quit!” James says, alarmed. “He’s so looking forward to it, it's his main motivation for getting better!”   
  
“What? No! No, James, never. They wanted to cancel us, remember? I’m fighting for this show. I'm fighting for him to have something to come back to. We’ll do it just the two of us if that's what it takes.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James is lying on the bed, on top of the covers, head resting on his bent elbow, looking at a sleeping Richard.   
  
It's their last night in hospital.   
  
Richard will be allowed home tomorrow.   
  
James is a little wary. For all that he can't wait to have Richard back, his Richard, the way he used to be, he's a little afraid of what's going to happen once they are away from the safe, structured hospital environment. Richard will push it hard, James knows him well enough to be aware of that. And Jeremy still hasn't come clean about Jason.   
  
Jeremy.   
  
James wonders what he's going to do about Jeremy.   
  
Rules have been suspended in the surrealism that was their past couple of weeks here with Richard. They’ve become each other's rock, helped each other through. A steady, trusted presence in the eye of the storm of fear and uncertainty.   
  
And now what?   
  
“Jaaaames, you’re thinking too loudly,” Richard turns on his side, facing James. He blinks sleepily in the low light. “I can't sleep like that. Whassup?”   
  
James chuckles, embarrassed at having been caught. He reaches over and twirls a strand of Richard's hair around his index finger, but doesn't reply.   
  
Richard catches the hand, entwines their fingers. “James?”   
  
James shrugs. “I’m worried about you.”   
  
The fingers tighten. “You always are.” Then: “Don’t be. I'm okay. Hamsters - seven lives and all that.”   
  
James sighs. “That's cats. And they have nine.” If only it were that easy.   
  
“Mmmmmh,” Richard hums. “What else?”  
  
“Isn't that enough?”   
  
“There's more.”   
  
“Why would there be?”   
  
“Because being worried about me has never made you climb into my bed before.”  
  
Touché.   
  
“Well, there's never been this much to worry about before.”   
  
“James.”  
  
James relents. “Fine. Fine, you know me too well. It’s annoying.” He closes his eyes, the illusion of darkness making it easier to admit it.   
  
“I think I've fallen in love with Jeremy,” he whispers.  
  
Re-opens his eyes quickly after that, needing to see Richard's reaction.   
  
Richard is silent for more than a full minute, obviously taking his time thinking things through. He keeps a hold of James’ hand, though, a firm reassurance.   
  
“He’s a good man,” Richard says eventually. “A little annoying at times. Outright obnoxious at others. But a very, very good man.” He squeezes James’ fingers again. ”You could do a lot worse. I approve.”  
  
“He’s straight.”   
  
Richard snorts. “No, he isn't.”   
  
“He’s a client.”   
  
“A very weird one from what you told me.” He grins proudly. “See, I remember that!”   
  
“Yeah. Well done, you.” It's rough around the lump in James’ throat. Because in the beginning, Richard had remembered _nothing_.   
  
“You’re overthinking.” Richard tugs at James’ hand until he gets the message and scoots closer. Slings an arm across James’ back and pulls him in even more. “It's gonna be okay. I’m gonna be okay and you’re gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay. He clearly likes you. Let _him_ take the next step, huh?”   
  
James buries his face in Richard's neck. Not denying it but not believing in it, either. Why should Jeremy, after all? They'd played a game and at one time it might even have led somewhere. Jeremy had been curious for sure, fascinated even. But games are the furthest thing from James' mind right now and he suspects it's no different for Jeremy.   
  
Plus, the last thing Jeremy will want to do at this point is rock his own world even more. Question his sexuality. Especially not with a callboy.   
  
No. It won’t go anywhere and James will get over it.   
  
He has to get over it.


	5. Chapter 5

The world - slowly - starts to right itself.   
  
James works again and he works a lot. He's been without an income for several weeks, needs to do some catching up. Bolster his finances.   
  
He’s at the Hammonds’ regularly. Shuttling Richard back and forth from therapy appointments. More often just hanging out.  
  
He doesn't see or hear from Jeremy.   
  
“He’s busy,” Richard says, sitting on the wooden fencing of the riding pen, watching Mindy lead a horse in circles on a lunge, a laughing Izzy practicing vaulting on top. She’s so much like Richard. Enthusiastic and seemingly carefree despite having been through so much already. Despite having almost lost her dad. “He doesn't want to tell me but I know how to operate Google. I know they are trying to axe us. And I know he’s gonna prevent it.”  
  
“How bad is it?” James asks, thinking of the Jason situation.   
  
Richard shakes his head. “I don't know. But it doesn't matter. Jezza - he’s got this.”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
On November 12th, barely two months after the accident, Richard is back behind the wheel.   
  
He takes his Morgan out for a spin into Wales and his excited whoops and cheers completely belie the fact that he isn't allowed to go above 50mph.  
  
James sits next to him, clinging to the handhold and laughing hysterically – mainly to avoid crying.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
When the call comes this time, James is so surprised he just stares at his phone until it stops ringing.  
  
They've never said goodbye. They've never met at Richard’s, even though James knows Jeremy visits. They hadn't promised to keep in touch, hadn't exchanged personal phone numbers. Just walked out of each other's lives as suddenly as they'd walked in.  
  
James has hoped to maybe cross paths with him again one day, through their mutual connection with Richard. Hoped, not expected.   
  
He certainly hasn’t expected for Jeremy to ever call again.  
  
The phone starts ringing again, spinning on the polished table top.   
  
James picks it up warily. Presses the connect-button.  
  
"Jeremy," he says. Just that.  
  
"James." Jeremy sounds just as hesitant. "How are you?"  
  
"Fine, I… I'm alright." He remembers his manners. "How are you?"  
  
"We got the go ahead. New series in spring."  
  
James perks up. "That's fantastic!"  
  
"Yes, isn't it." It sounds much more like: _No, it isn't_.  
  
James is momentarily thrown.  
  
"Come over?" Jeremy adds in a rush.  
  
No. No, it could go so wrong. "Jeremy, I…"  
  
"Please."  
  
James' head is spinning.  
  
“Why?” he whispers. “What for?”  
  
There is a very, very long silence. James can hear Jeremy breathing. Then: “I'm scared, James.”   
  
And that's all it takes. James doesn't even stop to wonder what of. Much less to _ask_ what of. “Give me an hour.”  
  
“Yes,” Jeremy says. “Thank you.” And then, just before James disconnects: “And James? No need to bring your tools.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James takes the tube because at this time of day, traffic is insane. He makes it in just under an hour.   
  
It's only when he's ringing the doorbell that he realises he has put zero thought or effort in his appearance. His old, faded jeans have holes in them, and not in strategic places. He’s wearing a ridiculous pink and purple rugby shirt. A threadbare Hornby jacket over it. His hair is a mess. Ah well. In hospital, Jeremy has seen him in a worse state.   
  
The door opens and there he is, the man in question. Looking James up and down, a warm smile spreading over his face.   
  
He steps aside and James enters. Stops in the hallway  
  
Jeremy closes and locks the door, then gestures for James to follow him into the living room. “I actually know nothing about you.” He laughs nervously. “Beer? Wine? Whisky? Water?”   
  
He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. “I’ll have what you're having.”   
  
Jeremy looks at him curiously. Shrugs, and fetches a bottle of rosé and two glasses from the kitchen.   
  
They settle next to each other on the sofa. Jeremy pours the wine. “Thanks for coming. I couldn't think of anyone else to call.”   
  
It's a rather sad thing, if the only person you can think to call is your callboy. Jeremy seems to be perfectly aware of that, judging from his embarrassed expression and the self-deprecating chuckle.  
  
James fidgets. He's not good at this. He's not good at this at all. “What’s up?” he asks, when nothing else seems to be forthcoming.   
  
“What’s up? The new series of course.”  
  
“Ah. I see.”   
  
Jeremy takes a sip of his wine, smiles fondly. “You don't, though, do you?”   
  
James snorts. “Not in the least.”   
  
“Then don't pretend, James.”   
  
“To be fair, pretending is basically my job.”   
  
They look at each other for a second. Two, three, four. Then, at the same time, they burst into laughter.   
  
The atmosphere is much more relaxed after that.   
  
Jeremy leans his head back, stares up at the ceiling.   
  
“They’ll descend on him like vultures. Watching for every stumble. Just waiting to declare him unfit.”   
  
And, yeah. That's something James hadn't considered.   
  
Jeremy covers his face with his hands.   
  
“How do I bring him back? How do I start that first show? We’ll need to acknowledge it but it can't be anything too soppy. How do I find a balance? And we'll have to discuss it, show footage, and how am I going to do that? How am I going to get through that on stage? How am I going to make sure he’s alright? And I still haven't told him about Jason!”  
  
“Jeremy.” James puts a hand on Jeremy's knee, realises what he's doing and snatches it back immediately. Takes a sip of wine, trying to hide his face behind his hair. Jeremy doesn't appear to have noticed, doesn’t react. “Jezza.” Richard’s nickname rolls awkwardly off James’ tongue. Again, Jeremy doesn’t appear to have noticed the slip. “I’m rubbish at guessing… do you want to vent or do you want ideas?”  
  
Jeremy rolls his head so he can look at James. His eyes are bloodshot and deeply troubled. “Do you _have_ ideas?”   
  
James shrugs shyly, startled by his own boldness. “Maybe? I mean. I know him _very_ well.”  
  
Jeremy leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, full attention on James. “Go ahead.”   
  
They spend the rest of the evening discussing ideas.   
  
Making a big fuss of Richard's entrance while pretending it's in order to annoy him is chief among them.   
  
They talk about wording for press conferences, about how much to show of the accident. About what Richard can easily handle, what’s better not to risk and what's out of the question. They talk about the fact that Jeremy never wants to see him in a high speed car ever again, but that it's inevitable in their line of work. About Jeremy's fear that he’ll never be able to take the piss again. About how Richard loathes to be coddled and about how important it is for Jeremy to get over it and treat him normally.  
  
And then James pitches Jeremy a few general ideas. Ideas that have lived in his head for years. And he admits that some of the things Jeremy, Jason and Richard have done on the show, ideas that have seemingly come from Richard, had actually come from James.   
  
Jeremy gapes. “TopGear Dog??”   
  
James grins, nods. “Maybe not my brightest idea. Sorry.”   
  
“The convertible people carrier?!?”  
  
James’ grin widens. “That was a good one, though, wasn't it? And I quite liked where you took it!”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
It's late when James finally gets up to leave.   
  
They stop in the hallway. Jeremy shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.   
  
“Thank you, James. I feel better.”   
  
They smile at each other and then Jeremy reaches for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.   
  
With a crashing sound all of James’ illusions shatter. “Don’t you dare,” he hisses. “Don't you fucking dare.”  
  
Jeremy raises his hands, looks like he's about to argue. James glares until he’s certain he has quelled the protest, then shrugs into his jacket, agitated and forceful. He's a fool, such a fool. He'd actually thought somewhere along the way they'd slipped into being mates.   
  
Stupid.   
  
Stupid, hopeful heart.  
  
He turns, desperate to leave, is almost out the door when Jeremy catches his elbow.   
  
"James, wait."  
  
James stops, but only because Jeremy is bigger and stronger than him. Looks at the floor, his hands, his shoes... anywhere but at Jeremy.   
  
"James, I'm sorry."   
  
Jeremy bends forward, close, closer, and there's nowhere James can go. Suddenly, unexpectedly, there's the ghost of a kiss against James' lips and there's nowhere James _wants_ to go.   
  
"Thank you for tonight." A whisper, somewhere in the vicinity of James’ ear, and then Jeremy is gone and James stumbles out the door, into the rain, away, just away.  
  
As fast as he can.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“Jeremy fired Jason.” Richard is lying upside down on James’ couch. Legs propped up against the backrest, head hanging over the front of the seat.  
  
James has to fight the urge to grab him and put him the right way up. How is that even comfortable?  
  
“Mmhmm,” he hums, noncommittally.   
  
He hates being in the middle. Hates not knowing what he should tell Richard and what he shouldn’t. Wants to tell him everything, wants to tell him about meeting with Jeremy but knows Richard wouldn’t take it well, knowing he’d been discussed by his two best friends. And that’s… a weird thought. That James and Jeremy are connected through being Richard’s two best friends.   
  
“He didn’t even ask me.”  
  
“You were a little bit out of commission for a while there, mate,” James says carefully.   
  
Richard gives him a suspicious upside-down squint. “You think he did it that long ago?”  
  
James shrugs. “Are you upset or are you fishing for something?”  
  
Richard sighs and moves to sit up properly. James shifts to give him space, utterly relieved. If he never again has to see Richard the wrong way down it will be too soon.   
  
“I’d just like to be consulted,” he sulks.   
  
“Don’t be a arse.” James hesitates, then takes a chance. “Jeremy Clarkson knows what he’s doing.”  
  
“And James May is always right.” Richard retorts sarcastically and James aims the retaliating scuff that would have usually gone to the back of Richard’s head at his shoulder.   
  
“You said yourself he didn’t work out.”   
  
“Yeah.” Richard fiddles with the ring on his finger. A clear sign that he’s struggling with something. James waits patiently.  
  
“We don't have a replacement,” Richard finally says. “It’ll be just the two of us. A lot of extra work.” He looks up at James from under his lashes, not quite meeting his eyes. “What if I'm not up for it?” he whispers. “What if I'm gonna let him down?”   
  
“Oh, Richard.” James slings an arm around his friend and Richard leans into him.   
  
“I’m scared,” he whispers, and it just about breaks James’ heart. It's not often Richard lets himself be vulnerable, not even in front of James. Not after those first turbulent couple of years.   
  
James doesn't reply, just holds him close.


	6. Chapter 6

“James??”  
  
“Jeremy. Hello.”   
  
“I. Uh. Hi! Ahm. Hello, James. I wasn't expecting…”  
  
“It’s about Richard.”  
  
“Oh.”   
  
Did that sound like disappointment? James tries not to get side-tracked. It’s probably his imagination anyway. It’s not like it would be possible to tell from a single ‘oh’, would it?  
  
“Yes. He… Jeremy, he’d kill me if he knew I was talking to you. And he’d kill me three times over if he knew I was saying this but… I don’t think he’s ready.”  
  
“James…”  
  
“He still has memory problems and he tires easily and he’s got these horrible migraines and there are scripts to learn and if it’s just the two of you… he’s worried about the workload, he said so, he said it himself. And… I know him very well, Jeremy, that’s a worrying thing for him to be worried about.”  
  
“Whoa, James. Slow down, mate.”  
  
James falls silent. Tries to calm down, breathe normally.   
  
“Look, James. I’m not gonna overdo it, I promise. I care about him, too. I don’t want him to break down on me. If he says stop, we stop.”  
  
“But that’s exactly the problem! He won’t!!” Oh, god, if Richard ever finds out about this, James is dead. Might just as well say it all. “He’s not very rational when it comes to you and the show. He’d see it as a weakness, see it as letting you down, disappointing you. And he’s good at faking stuff, extremely good. You won’t know until it’s too late.”  
  
Jeremy is silent for a very long moment. Then, quietly: “And _you _would?”  
  
James considers. Opts for total honesty. “No, not always. But my chances are better than anyone’s. And he talks to me. Sometimes.”  
  
Jeremy hums. “Come over?” he asks abruptly.   
  
“I… what?”   
  
“Come over? Let’s talk?”  
  
Try as he might, James can’t come up with any arguments against it.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When he pulls up at Jeremy’s a couple of hours later in his 1980 Bentley T2, there’s a brand new Bentley Azure in the driveway.   
  
It takes James several attempts to squeeze in beside it and by the time he’s finally done it, Jeremy is leaning against the open front door, grinning proudly.   
  
“What do you think?” he asks with a sweeping gesture at the car.  
  
“That you’d be mad to spend a quarter million pounds on a car you can’t sensibly drive in heavy rain. Or in London. Where it often rains heavily. And where you live.” James peers at the fabric of the retractable roof.   
  
Jeremy snorts. “Oh, come on, look at it! And now look at your T2. Worlds apart, I’m telling you, worlds apart.”  
  
“It’s an Arnage in disguise but without its stability,” James huffs before bending down to look at the interior. Of course he’s intrigued. It’s only just been released. Not many people have seen one up close.   
  
Jeremy jingles the keys. “Wanna give it a go? You can’t really have an opinion without having driven it.”  
  
James suppresses a grin, trying to hide his excitement. “Sure. But don’t expect me to like it!”   
  
It’s a fabulous car. Amazing. James loves it. Of course he does. He loves posh, stately cars. Oldtimers, usually, but that’s maybe only because he’s never driven one hot off the press. He does his level best not to let on, though, pointing and re-pointing out the few flaws, easily and playfully countering each and every one of Jeremy’s arguments.   
  
They stumble into the house afterwards, sniggering, buzzing with the thrill, elated.   
  
Jeremy grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses off the kitchen counter and waves James through to the living room. “Let’s celebrate!”  
  
“Celebrate what?” James asks, flopping onto the couch.   
  
“Your new job!” Jeremy announces. “As the third presenter on TopGear. This was your audition, so to speak.”  
  
All the air leaves the room. “My… what?” James asks, flatly.   
  
“Yes!” Jeremy grins madly, oblivious to the fact that James feels like he’s just been doused in ice water. “I still don’t believe I haven’t seen it sooner. You were right in front of my eyes, all this time! You’re quick, you’re sharp, you’re funny. You know about cars. You can make sure Richard is alright. Bingo.”  
  
James’ ears are ringing. “What makes you think I _want _to be a presenter on your show, Clarkson?”  
  
Jeremy stares at him, completely baffled. And that alone would be reason enough. The entitled, self-righteous git.   
  
“Well, why wouldn’t you?”  
  
“Because I already have a job? Which I’m good at and fond of? Because I don’t have a face appropriate for TV? Am not exactly eloquent? Because I’m not sure I want to work that closely with Hammond?” _Because I don’t think it would be a good idea to work closely with you. Because you’d probably break my heart before the next series is even over._  
  
“Are those reasons? Or are you _asking _me?” Jeremy sets the bottles down on the couch table with a thud.  
  
James gets up. "Thank you, Clarkson, but I should go."  
  
He almost makes it to the door before Jeremy catches up with him. "James!" He grabs for James' sleeve and James whirls around, going right into his face. It's his fight or flight response and he knows it. Can't help it. "I don't need your pity", he hisses, "I don't need rescuing!"  
  
They are close, faces inches away from each other. James is breathing hard. Utterly confused. Overwhelmed. _Scared_.   
  
And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Jeremy closes the gap.  
  
Teeth clash, there's the metallic tang of blood and then Jeremy is kissing him. Hard, almost desperate… before pulling away just as suddenly.   
  
James runs a tongue over his lip, probing, but there's no split. Looks up at Jeremy and yes. There it is. James stares, completely adrift, focussing on that little droplet of blood, hoping to hold onto a shred of his sanity. This is not real. This is not _Pretty Woman_. Millionaire Jeremy Clarkson is straight and has not just offered him a job on one of Britain's most watched TV shows. Much less meant it seriously.  
  
"Maybe _you _don't," Jeremy pants, voice hoarse. "But what if _I_ do?"   
  
"What?" James croaks. He has no idea what Jeremy is talking about. No idea what they'd been talking about before… _Before_.  
  
"This has always been a part of me but I’ve never met a man I trusted enough…" Jeremy swallows, “..._cared about_ enough to do anything about it, to risk it until… until now." He takes a step back, shakes his head. "I’ve always wanted my own TV show where I get to travel the world and drive fast cars and fool around with a couple of mates, but I’ve never found the right blokes to do it with… until now." A snort. "Ever since he turned up to that audition in a bad shirt and a yellow tie and talked about announcing the names of new-born lambs on radio Cumbria, I've wanted to protect the world's bounciest Hamster, but... I can’t. I can’t. He won’t let me." He looks at the floor briefly, then back up, straight into James' eyes. "You can't walk out of my life, James. You can't. Help me. With one of these things at least, help me."  
  
James' head spins. "It's all a bit much," he says faintly.  
  
"One," Jeremy all but pleads. "Just one. You choose. Please."  
  
James looks at him, properly looks at him, and he sees so much more than Jeremy Clarkson the TV personality.   
  
Sees the laughter lines as well as the worry creases. The man who's as quick to take the piss out of himself as he is of others. The man who can be completely serious one second, fall all over himself laughing the next.   
  
Sees the man who sleeps nights on end in a plastic chair because he wouldn’t leave his unconscious friend’s bedside.   
  
Isn't sure he has ever met a man as genuine, as sincere as Jeremy Clarkson.  
  
And Richard likes him. Trusts him.  
  
That’s reason enough to do the same.  
  
James steps forward, brings up his hand, twines his fingers into Jeremy's curls and licks the distracting smear of blood off Jeremy's upper lip.   
  
There’s a rush of air, an explosive exhale of held breath, but Jeremy keeps completely still. James darts his tongue over Jeremy's bottom lip, gauging reaction. With a soft sigh, Jeremy's eyes close and he opens up.   
  
James draws back abruptly. "I'm not on the clock. Just so we're clear."   
  
Jeremy's eyes fly back open. "You don't actually think you'd get away with not having a look at the upstairs toilet before we get to the fun part if you were, do you?" His eyes twinkle.   
  
“Who says that wouldn't _be_ the fun part?” James smirks, and lets himself be hauled into a tight embrace by a laughing Jeremy.  
  
Brings his own arms up and squeezes back as hard as he can.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Once in the bedroom, Jeremy turns suddenly shy.   
  
“Ah…,” he says, twisting away from James to pick a t-shirt up off the floor then stands, turning it over in his hands, staring disconcertedly at the unmade bed. “I didn’t expect…”  
  
“Jeremy.” James gently takes the shirt out of his hands, folds it and puts it away. “Relax.”  
  
“Relax??” Jeremy squeaks and James chuckles at the outraged indignation. Jeremy looks a little hurt but he can't keep it up very long and joins in soon enough.   
  
“James, I have no idea what I'm doing.”  
  
James runs a hand up and down Jeremy's arm. “Consider yourself lucky, then. Because I know _exactly _what I'm doing.”  
  
“No, you don't understand, James. I _always_ know what I'm doing!”   
  
Jeremy looks so adorably distraught, James can't help himself. Standing slightly on tiptoe he kisses him deeply.   
  
Part of his mind screams in alarm at the overwhelming sensation of _right_ that floods him, but he tells it firmly to get a grip and shut up.   
  
Not on the clock. He is allowed to indulge himself, allowed to enjoy.   
  
And enjoyable it is, bloody fucking enjoyable in fact. Jeremy's warm lips yield easily, letting him in, letting him explore and taste and feel… Jeremy moans quietly at the touch but holds still, eyes closed.   
  
Encouraged, James cups Jeremy's neck and brings them even closer, noses bumping, tongue deep in the delicious heat of Jeremy's mouth and Jeremy's eyes open again, blue-grey irises, impossibly close, and now James can't check his own groan anymore, a deep growl building way back in his throat, and then Jeremy is panting, clutching at James’ shirt and tugging and pulling and trying to kiss back and it all gets a little frantic until finally they topple over onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, and tongues, and bed sheets.   
  
James has landed underneath and he squirms and wriggles until they are on their sides facing each other, still locked in a tight embrace and a passionate kiss.   
  
He deliberately slows it then, makes it sweet and languid.   
  
And it's not something he can call on his experience for, because it's not something he’d ever do for a client. Part of him panics at the thought, balks at the implications of what he's getting himself into, the emotional attachment already forming, no, _already_ _present_. But then he winds his fingers into Jeremy's curls and Jeremy practically _purrs,_ and all doubts dissipate.   
  
James smiles and pulls back a little, pressing their foreheads together and massaging his fingers through Jeremy's hair and over his scalp. “You like this, hmm?”   
  
Jeremy hums, eyes half-lidded, going limp and pliant in James’ arms.   
  
“Yeah,” James says, scratching behind Jeremy's ear, just the way Fusker likes best. “I’d wondered. You have no idea how long I've watched you on that show, wondering how my hands would feel in those glorious curls of yours and if you’d enjoy it as much as I would.”  
  
Jeremy pulls back, hitching himself up on an elbow so he can look at James. “You what?” he asks.   
  
James tugs him back down. “I’ve always kind of fancied you, you know,” he whispers close to Jeremy's ear. “Those jeans and leather jackets. All gangly long legs and a dust mop on your head. You once said I'm a weird man. Call this proof, if you like.”   
  
“Bollocks,” Jeremy says and it sounds as disbelieving as it sounds breathless.   
  
“And most of all,” James says, enjoying himself, “that filthy mouth of yours.”  
  
Jeremy’s head shoots up. He looks at James, pupils blown wide. “Okay,” he rasps. “Okay. You’ve got to do something to me now. Or let me do something to you. Immediately.”  
  
“Or?” James asks, running a teasing finger down Jeremy’s chest, flicking the shirt buttons open one by one with a practiced flip of his thumb.   
  
“Or I’m gonna explode.”  
  
“Mm-hmmm,” James hums, reaching the fly of Jeremy’s jeans, playing with the buttons.   
  
“And that would make a right mess.”   
  
“No, it wouldn’t. You’re still almost fully clothed.”  
  
Jeremy stares. Then, in one uncoordinated but surprisingly quick movement, he leaps off the bed and removes socks, jeans and boxer shorts.   
  
James lies back against the pillows and laughs. A real, genuine belly laugh. As deep and honest as it is involuntary. And crikey, it’s been so long it almost hurts.   
  
Jeremy climbs back on the bed, erection straining upwards, but he stops at the edge of the mattress, glaring accusingly. James opens his arms wide until Jeremy finally stops pouting and shuffles up to him on his knees, until James finally can gather him close and kiss him.   
  
“What do you want?” James asks.   
  
“I’m not your client,” Jeremy sulks. “We’re doing what _you _want.”  
  
James laughs softly, running a hand through Jeremy’s hair, down his cheek, neck, over his shoulders, sliding the shirt off him. He quickly slips out of his own clothes, much more elegantly than Jeremy has but no less efficiently.  
  
“No we’re not,” James says, pulling Jeremy close again, skin to skin. Can feel the shiver running through him, can feel his cock lose a bit of its stiffness, knows he’s excited but very, very nervous. “Not this time, anyway.” Fervently hopes there will be a repeat.   
  
He pitches his voice low, scratches his fingernails lightly down Jeremy’s back, over his arse. Feels Jeremy's cock twitch back to full hardness. “It’s much too soon for any of those things.” Jeremy’s breath hitches. James can feel him trembling.   
  
“We’re taking things slow, Jeremy,” he says, voice mock-stern but in fact reassuring. Jeremy is very much caught between panic and arousal, James knows the signs well.   
  
“Yes,” Jeremy says. Shudders. “Please.”  
  
James’ own half-hard cock stiffens in a hot rush. Is there anything more instantly arousing than a _please_ from Jeremy Clarkson's lips?   
  
James' hands roam over warm skin. “Are you okay?” he murmurs into Jeremy's curls. Which are fast becoming his favourite part of Jeremy's body.   
  
Next to these expressive blue-grey eyes. And these pliant lips. And the firm butt cheeks.  
  
Oh, and the toes, now that James has noticed how they curl every time he touches the small of Jeremy's back.  
  
And of course the squishy-soft belly trapping James’ cock so deliciously against his own stomach.  
  
Christ, James is so far gone already.   
  
“Jeremy?”   
  
“Yes,” Jeremy says, blinking up at James with a slightly dazed expression. “I still have no idea what to do.”   
  
James laughs. “Whatever you want. You're allowed to touch, for one.”   
  
Jeremy's eyes flicker over James’ body, settle again on James’ face. He looks positively overwhelmed.   
  
James feels a wave of affection wash over him, soaking him to the bones, thoroughly and irrevocable. “Let’s start small.” He nudges Jeremy's shoulder. Turn around, c'mon.” It's easier like this and it gives James perfect access.   
  
To nuzzle his face into Jeremy's hair. To lightly bite his neck. To kiss his shoulders.  
  
To wrap his hand around Jeremy's full, hard cock, stroking it with sure, confident fingers.  
  
To wiggle until his own hardness slides oh so deliciously into the crack between Jeremy's cheeks, fitting perfectly, like it belongs.  
  
Jeremy makes the most unexpected whimpering noises and presses back against James, grinds into James' lap and James allows himself a bit of movement, a bit of friction, lets his hips thrust ever so gently in time with the pulls of his hand, lets his cock rub up against Jeremy's arse. And it might seem like nothing special compared to the things James has done in the past, but then again, it might just be the most erotic sexual experience he's ever had in his entire life.  
  
Jeremy shudders into and through an intense, drawn out climax and James holds him tight, kisses that sweet spot behind his ear and thrusts hard.   
  
Once. Twice.   
  
Then he, too, lets go.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Jeremy lies heavily in James' arms, almost cutting off the circulation in James' legs. Not that James is complaining. Quite the contrary in fact.   
  
He can't believe his luck.  
  
He blows softly into the curls that tickle his nose, parting them over a beginning bald spot, wondering idly how telling it is that he finds it so adorable.  
  
Jeremy stirs, half slides off and turns around, aiming uncoordinated kisses at random spots of James’ flushed skin. “Next time,” he says, a sloppy peck landing on James’ nose, “next time I wanna see your face.”   
  
James forgets how to breathe for a second, and Jeremy freezes. “I mean… I don't… will there _be_ a next time?”   
  
James wraps his arms around him and pulls him close, as close as they can go, ignoring the sticky mess merging on their bellies and he kisses him, kisses him deeply and with utter abandon, putting everything he has into it.   
  
“Yes, Jeremy. I’d love a next time.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They end up on the sofa with the bottle of wine after all.   
  
“So,” James says.   
  
“So,” replies Jeremy.   
  
James eyes him sideways. “I’m not going to give up my job.”   
  
“Yes.” Jeremy toys with his glass. “I respect that. And I shouldn't have assumed. We’d make the perfect team, the three of us. But.” He blushes slightly. “I won't be greedy. As long as I get to keep you... It's fine. Ahm. Thanks for. You know. Not running away.”  
  
“I almost did.” James smiles. “But you stopped me quite efficiently.”  
  
Jeremy smiles back, uncharacteristically shy. “I'm glad I did.”   
  
James leans over, kisses him on the lips. "So am I."


	7. Chapter 7

James knows he is very much in trouble when Richard Hammond arrives in a roaring Dodge Challenger and blows through his front door like a hurricane on a mission.   
  
James freezes in the process of scooping cat food into a bowl.  
  
“You!” Richard stabs an accusing finger in the direction of James' face. _“You!”_   
  
Fusker growls.   
  
Richard is so agitated he can’t even form a proper sentence. He wags his finger in front of James’ nose. “When?”   
  
Ah.   
  
It's less that James hasn’t wanted to tell him. It's more that so far there has been a convenient lack of opportunity.   
  
“Were you? Going to tell me. James? When??”   
  
Fusker loses his meagre patience entirely and digs into James’ calf, pricking the thick cloth of James’ jeans easily with needle-sharp little claws.   
  
“Ouch!” James hurries to disentangle the moggy and dish out the cat food, which at least gives him time enough to form the beginning of his defensive strategy.   
  
“My sex life is none of your business, Rich, and neither is Jeremy's. It was not for money, if that's what you want to know.”   
  
Richard's hand drops to his side. He gapes, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.  
  
Then: “You had sex with _Jezza_???”  
  
And. Okay. Now _that's_ confusing.   
  
Gradually, a huge grin spreads over Richard's face. He pumps his fist. Combines the gesture with a little hop.   
  
Fusker hisses angrily and glares, but won’t be chased away from his lunch by the commotion.  
  
“I knew it! I _knew_ it!” Richard does a little victory dance. James is hard put not to grin. “Straight, my arse… Good for you, mate!” He raises his hand for a high five which James gives without thinking, immediately regretting it when he half-misses and his pinkie makes painful contact with Richard's massive ring. Cock. This happens every time. It's why he doesn't _do_ high fives.   
  
Richard sobers. The warning finger makes a reappearance. “Don't distract me! I’m mad at you and I want an explanation!”  
  
“I don't even know, Rich, it just happened, but it was he who kissed me first…”  
  
“Not about that!” Richard interrupts. Checks himself, reconsiders. “Well, yes, about that too. Later. Every detail. But, seriously, James, _what the fuck_?”  
  
“What the fuck _what_?” James is genuinely confused.   
  
“You refused to be on TopGear?!?”   
  
“Oh, that.”   
  
Richard splutters. “Yes, _that_. James, have you gone completely bonkers? Why did you do that?”  
  
James laughs out loud. It's a ludicrous notion after all.   
  
"Why are you laughing?"  
  
"Because I would be rubbish of course, that's why."  
  
Richard deflates. Contemplates him for a very long time.   
  
It takes a lot out of James not to squirm under the scrutiny.  
  
"See, James, that's where you're wrong," Richard says quietly, seriously. "You would be absolutely brilliant. Perfect. Bloody Jeremy. I can't believe it. We’ve been talking bollocks about cars for so long, you and I… but I needed _him_ to point out what a perfect match you’d be.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James drives his Bentley straight into the studio without even bothering to slow down much at the big metal gates of the hangar.   
  
It will feature prominently in his first VT after all, it deserves a place of pride in the stage setting.  
  
Jeremy protests loudly but his eyes twinkle. Richard giggles and punches James' upper arm. James exchanges an awkward nod with Jennifer - they will probably never be entirely at ease with each other - shakes hands with Wilman and Porter, then ambles over to examine the set-up for Richard's grand entrance. It was his idea, after all.   
  
In the portacabin, half an hour before filming is due to commence, Jeremy steals a quick kiss while James is boiling water for tea.   
  
“Nervous?” he murmurs.   
  
James turns his head slightly so he can see Richard on the couch. Who's got an in-ear monitor for the first time since series one and is compulsively leafing through his script, marking passages in ever brighter colours.   
  
“Not as nervous as _he_ is,” James replies lowly, taking care that he can't be overheard by Richard. “You?”   
  
Jeremy opens his mouth and James knows there's a dismissive remark coming, a nonchalant little joke. But at the very last moment Jeremy swallows it, shuts his mouth and turns to pour the tea.   
  
When he turns back to James, his face is completely open, emotions entirely unchecked. It takes James' breath away. He reaches out on instinct, puts a steadying hand on Jeremy's elbow.   
  
Jeremy smiles gratefully, leans into the touch.  
  
“Me? Fucking terrified.”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
There's no introduction or anything.  
  
They act as if James has always been there, as if Jason never existed.  
  
This is Richard's moment.   
  
Nothing is allowed to distract from it.   
  
Richard comes down the stairs. Hugs Jeremy but not James (it would look weird to the audience for him to hug the new bloke).  
  
Jeremy is a little over the top, rambly and overly cheerful, nervous and overcompensating. But it's unlikely most people will even notice.   
  
Richard copes brilliantly and James’ Bentley film is well received.  
  
Everything is slightly over-scripted, slightly stilted, and James isn’t exactly at ease, even disregarding the first-time nerves. It's a very weird episode for giving one’s debut.   
  
But he can feel it.   
  
Whenever they stand close together, James can feel it. The sparks in the air, very nearly tangible. The crackling of their chemistry. There’s a magic there, he can practically taste it on his tongue whenever he opens his mouth to say something.  
  
They were right, both of them.   
  
This is going to work.  
  
They are the perfect match.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Sitting through the recap of the accident is agony.   
  
James doesn't have to say much, thank goodness. Jeremy is in the lead and Richard is playing exaggeratedly off him.   
  
James watches Richard closely. Gives Jeremy a reassuring nod when he catches his worried gaze during a film sequence when the cameras are off them.   
  
Richard is fine. Has detached himself, is completely faking it, but he's fine.  
  
They will all be fine.  
  
This is gonna be good.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
After the show, in the privacy of the portacabin, James pulls Richard into a tight embrace and then his arms kind of lock and he can't make himself let go for an embarrassingly long time.  
  
It’s only when he registers Jeremy standing nearby, looking drained and overwhelmed and a little lost, that he snaps out of it.   
  
“Go on,” he croaks, forcing to disengage himself from Richard finger by finger, hand by hand, arm by arm. “Go give Jeremy a hug.”  
  
“Me? But you… why?”   
  
“Because he needs it, you muppet.”  
  
James has finally managed to let go completely and gives Richard a little shove in Jeremy’s direction.   
  
“I don't think it's _me_ he wants...” Richard starts, but is interrupted by Jeremy practically flinging himself at him “... umph.”   
  
He just about manages to stay on his feet despite Jeremy doing his best impression of an octopus.  
  
James smiles fondly. “It appears you thought wrong.” 


	8. EPILOGUE

**EPILOGUE**

They stumble through James’ front door, already kissing passionately, clawing at each other's clothing, before the door has even properly fallen shut behind them.  
  
James knows it's the release of tension more than anything, but he will take this any time over self-destructively obsessing about every word they said in the pre-recorded interview.   
  
He lets Jeremy slam him up against the wall, not fighting for dominance.   
  
He needs this just as much as Jeremy does.   
  
But Jeremy needs it to be on his terms.  
  
It's been two series. Two extremely successful series. Filled with hilarity and adventure and fast cars and cocking about on a scale James would never have deemed possible.   
  
With friendship and joy and _love_, on a scale James would never have deemed possible.   
  
Not everything is easy, life isn’t all beer and curry and old war documentaries. Of course it isn't. Jeremy can be… difficult, to put it mildly. Driven when it comes to the show. Short tempered with people and procedures that interfere with his creative genius. Provocative. Hard to keep in line, sometimes. And a slob. His clothes are everywhere, predominantly on the floor. Mugs with dried-up coffee dregs on every surface. Dog-eared books in every room. Every time he wants to sit down, James has to clear a space first.   
  
But never in his life has James been more happy.   
  
Never has there been so much laughter.   
  
Never has he felt so cherished.   
  
Oh, there have always been rumours. But, this morning, the inevitable had finally happened.   
  
Jeremy bites the tendon in James’ shoulder before he drops to his knees and, in the same fluid motion, rips James’ flies apart and pulls down his jeans and pants. James’ head knocks back against the wall with a thump. His fingers, finding their usual firm grip in Jeremy's curls, tighten. He barely manages to lock his knees before he’s engulfed by Jeremy's enthusiastic mouth.   
  
Someone had found evidence. Not only of James’ previous profession, that wouldn't be a problem, it's kind of an open secret after all. But of James having visited Jeremy back then, on several occasions. And of them spending more time together now than they do apart.   
  
Their families know, of course. Their friends know. Richard is their biggest fan.   
  
But so far they had managed to keep their relationship and Jeremy’s sexual orientation private.  
  
James groans, spreads his legs wider and tries not to thrust too hard into that delicious moist heat. Jeremy can take a lot. Is _eager_ to take a lot, his gag-reflex essentially non-existent. But James is still afraid to hurt him. Always afraid to hurt him, overwhelm him. Can still hardly believe all of this is real.   
  
He registers a whimper, is appalled to realise the noise is coming from him.  
  
Is entirely unable to stop it.   
  
The person had contacted Jeremy, had threatened to sell the story to Piers Morgan's Daily Mail (of all the shite rags), if Jeremy didn't pay up.   
  
There is one thing the blackmailer hadn't considered, though: Jeremy and James have a backup plan for just this scenario. Always had, from the day James first stepped into the public eye. Granted, there have been a couple of adjustments over the course of the past year or so. But in principle, it’s been there since day one.   
  
Jeremy suddenly stills.   
  
James’ hips stutter a couple more times in needy confusion before he manages to snap himself back to alertness.  
  
“Jez?” he asks, one hand moving from Jeremy's hair to cup his cheek. They both move just the tiniest little bit at exactly the same time and James slides out from between Jeremy's lips.   
  
Jeremy rests his forehead against James’ belly.  
  
“Jez?” James asks again, concerned now.   
  
The exclusive interview had quickly been arranged. Only hours later, James and Jeremy had gone to White City to tell their story.  
  
Jeremy looks up at James, pupils dilated behind half-closed lashes, lips red and wet and slightly swollen.  
  
He's so bloody beautiful.   
  
“Take me,” he says, voice barely more than a whisper. “James, I need you.”  
  
It will be aired on BBC One tonight, the interview. As part of The One Show.   
  
The request knocks the breath right out of James for several long, frozen seconds. Jeremy has never… _They never have._   
  
“If you want?” Jeremy adds hesitantly and James flies into motion. Flings himself to his knees so he can hug Jeremy properly.   
  
“Think that's a question?” James hauls them both up off the floor and up the stairs to the bedroom without even stopping long enough for a kiss.  
  
It's not the prospect of the action that makes James all choked up with emotion and at a loss for words. He doesn't much care _what _they do when they do it.   
  
It's the unconditional trust.  
  
The knowledge that he is the first and - hopefully - only one who ever gets to share this with Jeremy.   
  
That Jeremy has, in little more than a year, managed to accept and respond to this newfound side of him, exploring it step by step together with James.   
  
It makes for an intimacy James has never before experienced, never before been part of.   
  
It's unfathomable.  
  
James hardly knows what to do with it, with himself, with Jeremy laid out beneath him, gazing up at James as if he'd hung the moon, welcoming every kiss, every touch, never once flinching, never once insecure.   
  
Following James’ guidance without hesitation.   
  
And James takes his time. Draws it out, revels in this new first. There aren’t very many ‘firsts’ left.   
  
He explores. Adores.  
  
_Worships_.   
  
He works Jeremy up and then down again, and back up, drawing on every ounce of his experience, his expertise, his self-control.  
  
Makes it last.  
  
Savours the way Jeremy turns himself over to him, to his tongue and fingers, the way he completely gives up control. He's like putty under James' expert hands, oh so responsive, whimpering, incoherently begging, so different from anyone James has ever been with, so different from the Jeremy everyone else gets to see, and James can't, just can't deny himself any longer and he uses his fingers one more time, checking, testing, opening him up just that final tad more before pushing into him, slowly, as carefully as he can manage. And he honestly doubts Jeremy is with it enough to feel any pain at all, writhing and breathlessly moaning underneath James, but then he cries out and James immediately halts, holding himself still, waiting, soothing him, holding him, kissing him. Until Jeremy is quivering, almost sobbing, begging him to move it, _move it the fuck on_ and James is at the end of his rope anyway and so that's what he does, moves into Jeremy, all the way in, eyes riveted on that beloved face caught between discomfort and pure, unadulterated wonder.  
  
And it's the most intimate, the most mind blowing thing James has ever done.   
  
It's also the most intense orgasm he's ever had, but that's completely irrelevant.  
  
He holds Jeremy tightly through endless aftershocks, distantly realises that both their faces are wet, doesn't know who of them has cried or if they both have, still are, and it doesn't matter in the least anyway.  
  
Jeremy clings to him long after the rush has subsided and James manages to quell the deeply ingrained urge to get up and shower - or at least clean up and get dressed.  
  
Seldom has he felt as fulfilled, as satisfied, as content and at peace with the world and his entire existence than at this very moment.   
  
Jeremy stirs, not to move away but to get even closer if that's at all possible and James catches an involuntary glance at his Omega. Their interview is on.  
  
“Are you afraid?” James whispers, kissing Jeremy's temple, stroking a hand through his hair.   
  
“When I have you with me?” Jeremy arches his neck, pushes into the touch, lets out that adorable almost-purr. “Why would I be?”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
They let go of each other just long enough for a quick trip to the bathroom, then fall asleep almost as entangled as they’d been before.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
James wakes from a light moving over his closed eyelids.   
  
“Mmmph,” he complains, reaching out to find Jeremy sitting up against the headboard. He swats a hand in the general direction of him and the light, but Jeremy doesn't react. James reluctantly opens his eyes.   
  
The light is the lit screen of Jeremy's fancy new internet mobile phone. Jeremy is staring at it, a moving stream of Facebook posts reflected on his face.   
  
James hitches himself up on one elbow, dread pooling in his stomach. “Jezza?”   
  
Jeremy starts, looks down at James and smiles.   
  
He turns the phone so James can see the constant stream of hundreds upon hundreds of well-wishes and support messages rolling down the official TopGear Facebook page, the list ever growing.  
  
They stare at them together in stunned silence, until James’ eyes hurt. He closes his hand around Jeremy's holding the phone and makes him switch it off. Leans up to kiss him softly on the lips.   
  
“And you say Facebook is a cesspit.”   
  
Jeremy snorts.   
  
The phone vibrates with a text message. James takes his hand away so Jeremy can switch the screen back on and they can both look at it.   
  
It's Richard.   
  
_“You are the luckiest bastard in the world, Jez. That was a brave thing to do. Proud of you both. To be clear: I’ll be *James'* best man. You will have to ask Andy or whoever."_  
  
Jeremy's eyes crinkle, full of affection and mirth. They share a fond smile, then Jeremy switches the phone off completely and they lie back down again, facing each other, both too overwhelmed for words.   
  
"Weird to be so so happy," Jeremy whispers eventually.  
  
James reaches out, fumbles for Jeremy's left hand in the dark. Finds it and catches it in his own.  
  
Brings it to his lips and kisses each finger individually.  
  
Lingers on the one he will so very soon put a ring on.  
  
Yes.  
  
_So so happy indeed._  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another blatently stolen line:  
"Weird to be so so happy" is straight out of Jeremy’s Twitter post about his daughter's engagement. “Today, I delivered 2 sheeps and as my hand was up a vag, my daughter called to say she was getting married. Weird to be so so happy.” (20th March 2020)
> 
> Well, that's it! it was quite a ride. I set out to write a short, cracky little ficlet. But somehow things started to slot together perfectly and it grew and grew and turned itself around into something that was somehow as surprising as it was logical.
> 
> I really like how it turned out, though, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for bearing with me all the way to the end! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Jewels in the junkyard, diamonds in the rust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29092860) by [argonautic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/argonautic/pseuds/argonautic)


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